Lamoille County in Vermont boasts a population of 26,000 residents who reside in charming small towns surrounded by lush woods and majestic mountains. It is famous for its two exceptional ski resorts, Stowe and Smugglers’ Notch, as well as a picturesque river that offers fly-fishing and canoeing opportunities for locals and tourists alike. Interestingly, an analysis conducted by ProPublica last year identified Lamoille County as the United States’ most safeguarded county from the adverse effects of climate change, such as rising sea levels, wildfires, crop damage, and economic repercussions. However, recent events have challenged this notion.
Just a few weeks ago, a torrential downpour of five to ten inches of rain drenched Morrisville, a town near the heart of Lamoille County. The nearby town of Wolcott experienced the destruction of its roads, and the residents of Cambridge had to be evacuated as the raging Lamoille River inundated the area. Entire harvests were obliterated, and major roads became impassable. Lamoille County faced the brunt of the calamity, with Vermont’s public safety commissioner, Jennifer Morrison, labeling it as the worst affected area in the state.
This recent flood is only the latest in a series of extreme weather events that have plagued Vermont this year. Following an unusually warm January, a late frost in May potentially destroyed over fifty percent of the state’s commercial apple crop. Throughout the summer, dense smoke from wildfires in Canada polluted the once pristine air. To make matters worse, heavy rainfall during the week of July 10 triggered devastating flooding in Montpelier, the state capital, annihilating homes and businesses. This deluge marked the worst flooding since Hurricane Irene, which struck the state a mere twelve years ago. It is clear that Vermont can no longer be considered a haven it was once believed to be. If this idyllic state, shielded from the ocean in one of the nation’s coolest regions, is vulnerable, it is difficult to fathom a place that truly is safe from the impacts of climate change.
For years, academics have been fascinated by the concept of “climate havens,” areas that are less likely to experience extreme heat, sea-level rise, and inland flooding as global temperatures surge. These havens could potentially accommodate climate refugees displaced from their homes due to the changing climate. Vermont towns have often found themselves on these lists. In Jesse Keenan’s compilation, crafted as recently as last year, Burlington, Vermont was included alongside other cities like Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and Asheville, North Carolina. However, a recent analysis by the climate nonprofit First Street Foundation revealed that Pittsburgh could experience hundred-year storms as frequently as every two decades. Similarly, Asheville is predicted to face droughts, extreme heat, and intense precipitation in the coming decades. If havens are facing such dire futures, it is evident that we need a reality check.
Living in a so-called climate haven can breed complacency, leading individuals to perceive the climate crisis as a phenomenon restricted to other parts of the country. As a journalist covering climate change for a decade, nearly as long as I have resided in Vermont, I was well-versed in the science and predictions surrounding climate change, such as more severe storms and increasingly intense precipitation events. Despite this knowledge, I was still taken aback when the Battenkill River overflowed its banks just eight miles from my home, inundating my friends’ houses and establishments.
This false sense of security is pervasive. Recent surveys conducted by local news reveal that one-third of new residents in Vermont moved to the state for climate-related reasons. A friend of mine, Joe Dickson, is one of them. Joe and his husband used to own a farm in Bastrop County, Texas, an area witnessing a surge in wildfires and flash flooding each year. In 2017, Hurricane Harvey destroyed a bridge, isolating their community. They relocated to Peru, Vermont, only a year ago. Following the flooding last week, Joe expressed a profound and anxious vigilance, spending sleepless nights monitoring the weather forecast, despite living on elevated ground. It mirrored his experiences back in Texas when he would wake up every couple of hours during storms, checking the rain gauge and observing the creek, waiting for it to overflow.
Even longtime Vermont residents have been shocked by the floods. I met my friend Brad Peacock, who has resided in Shaftsbury for many years, at our local organic farm last Saturday. He confided in me, saying, “I don’t think I’m the only farmer who thought Vermont was better prepared for climate change.” We are accustomed to living in a northern state with a strong focus on nature and progressive climate policies. It is disheartening to realize that we were caught unprepared once again, just like during Hurricane Irene and last week’s flooding.
My daughters have spent their entire lives in Vermont. When Hurricane Irene struck the state, my eldest daughter, Frasier, was only two years old, dancing in the rain at a friend’s wedding while I held her infant sister. We were oblivious to the fact that entire towns would soon be cut off from the outside world as highways washed away. However, the recent storm had a different impact. My daughters, now 14 and 12, received flood alerts on their phones, and their friends sent them videos of water flooding their homes. Following the initial rainfall, we drove north on Route 7A to survey the damage. Our tires splashed through several inches of standing water on the highway. Basements were emptied into front yards to protect valuables. The local park and putting green were entirely submerged, and the typically clear Battenkill River ran brown with runoff, rising so high that it almost touched a nearby bridge as it roared beneath.
When we returned home, a sense of solemnity descended upon us. “I can feel myself anticipating something bad,” Frasier confessed. Later in the day, as we watched news footage of the devastation from the comfort of our living room couch, my younger daughter, Zephyr, expressed her melancholy. “I feel scared that I have to grow up in a ruined version of Vermont,” she admitted.
Vermonters, like rural Americans across the nation, share a deep connection to the land around them. My farming friend, Brad, felt devastated for those locals whose fields were flooded. He wrote to me, expressing his sorrow for those who may never be able to return to the land they so lovingly tended. “I understand what it means to be connected to the land, and the thought of having it taken away in an instant is heartbreaking,” he shared.
Throughout the country, families in both climate havens and high-risk areas live in fear of losing their ties to their homes. Georgia farmers mourn the loss of their peach crops. Florida homeowners anxiously monitor the rising sea levels, waiting for the moment when it will reach their front yards. Louisianans observe the ocean encroaching on the stilts of their family cottages, inching closer to sweeping them away.
In Vermont, we are working towards repairing flooded tractors and raising funds for lost crops. We are donating to farmers and flooded bookstores. However, we are aware that this heartache is not unique to us and will only intensify. We will discover new ways to love the land and cultivate sustenance. We will assist our neighbors in harvesting their crops before the next deluge. Yet, after this summer’s events, I suspect we will never again delude ourselves into believing that we are invulnerable to harm.
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